


Janteloven

by TheColorBlue



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Disney, M/M, Marvel Universe, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheColorBlue/pseuds/TheColorBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hans Westergaard is the agent in Denmark's Dept. of Defense who no one is supposed to be trust. Except Sitron Sommer, apparently. </p><p>Sitron's characterization is based on that established in my previous fics about the guy. The title comes inspired by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Law_of_Jante">The Law of Jante</a>, with a last stab at the 11th rule stated therein. The fic was also originally inspired by <a href="http://magickedteacup.tumblr.com/post/81515194564/hawkins-netwanderer-captain-anmerica-winter">this image set</a>, but it ended up really not being like the image set at all, so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Janteloven

This was the difference between Denmark and the United States: Denmark would have never tolerated an Iron Woman. And this was not because the Iron Woman was a woman, let’s get that straight from the beginning. It was because the Iron Woman, bodyguard of Theresa “Tink” Bell of Bell Industries, and also such individuals as their Captain America, Aurora Davis, were examples of that very American style of elevating and applauding those who made spectacles of themselves. In the Danish Department of Department of Defense, under that arm of which focused on the emergence of the unusual and advanced sciences and weapons technologies—under this arm, there was no encouragement of flashy names and flashy tactics. 

Hans Westergaard was not a particularly flashy person—except in hindsight. This is possibly why he was not-so-secretly loathed by everyone in his department. Hans was the kind of person who would do anything and everything necessary to achieve an objective. The rumor was that he was both a sociopath and a pathological liar. The only reason he hadn’t murdered the director and risen to take his place was because the director was his _older brother_ , and they were strange and misguided family loyalties in place that prevented such a coup. Hans had twelve brothers, many of whom had government employed positions of prestige, including within the Department of Defense. There were funny stories about more than one of them, but Hans was generally considered to be that one particular outlier, a particularly “bad egg.”

Sitron Sommer, Han’s significant other, was not a flashy person, period, unless you counted sheer goofiness as a fatal character flaw. The story about Agent Sitron Sommer was that he had a face like an innocent cream pastry, and on his first day in the field, he actually apologized to someone trying to kill him on the field when he broke his legs.

“It was a reflex,” he’d protest every time someone brought it up. “It’s not like I ever tell every person who attacks me ‘I’m sorry’ anymore.” 

Sitron was a decent man. He looked after others fastidiously before himself, sometimes even when he was breaking their legs, and he never presumed. He never presumed to take more, to take that which was not his, which was why Hans had presumed for him. Hans had arranged so that they were not employed in quite the same units of the division, which meant that they were technically allowed to date, and that was when Hans had swooped in for the figurative kill. 

Hans had cornered Sitron in the hall outside the department offices, right up against the hall at the end of Sitron’s lunch break. 

“This is the most selfish thing I’ve ever asked of anyone,” he said, while Sitron stared at him, and then Hans asked Sitron to allow Hans to take him out to dinner. Please. 

\--

Hans said, once, after two months of dating and when feeling like waxing poetic apparently, that to date Sitron was like “courting decadence.” He said this on the day he took Sitron to fucking NOMA, which usually required months in advance reservation and several hundred dollars per person per meal. He didn’t look like he was being sarcastic as he was saying it. 

To this piece of poetry, Sitron had blurted out, “People say I’m basically like a cream puff. I’m--I’m nothing special at all.” 

It seemed like a dangerous thing to say, even as the words left his mouth. 

Sitron was perfectly aware of how Hans used people’s self worth as a weapon. He’d seen Hans take people apart before. 

But Hans only looked at Sitron, and then said, “Do you remember the Norwegian debacle.”

“Oh sure,” Sitron said, before he could stop himself. The people who had been involved kept calling Hans a “sociopathic lunatic.” Something about almost killing Norway’s so-called “Snow Queen,” the mysterious woman with ice-based abilities, and her sister, a woman with augmented strength. The intelligence on those figures was still spotty. They couldn’t figure out if the abilities were advanced science or genetic mutation or what was going on. Sitron was still not sure how Hans had managed to remain employed and not, you know, in prison, if all the accusations had any merit at all. It was possibly because Hans hadn’t technically broken any laws, international or otherwise. Mostly, everyone had just been accusing Hans of being “heartless.” 

Sitron was still thinking about all of this when, Hans said, “You were the only person who spoke to me afterwards like I was still a human being.” 

And then he poured Sitron more wine. 

Sitron just stared at Hans, and then at at the red wine being poured into his glass. 

He took another bite of the asparagus on his place, which were probably very fine and had hours of delicate care and cooking poured into them, and were being completely wasted on someone like him, someone who was as ready to eat cold-cut sandwiches for dinner as anything else. 

He let Hans take his free hand from across the table though. 

It seemed worth it, somehow. 

He didn’t know why he felt so warm in his chest. He’d had half a dozen people tell him already that Hans was just using him. Probably for sex, which was funny, since Sitron had since learned that Hans Westergaard was asexual. Very romantic, but completely asexual. 

Even so, dimly he wondered if there would come a day when he realized: he would have to cut his losses. 

If there would come a day when he’d find that he’d have to open his eyes, and realize that Hans was the one with the knife, and that Sitron would have to do what he’d done that first day in the field: break the hand holding the knife, and tell Hans that he was sorry. 

Or would he just let Hans hurt him after all. 

Hans gently squeezed Sitron’s hand, holding it, and Sitron let him.


End file.
